


I Die Without You

by Sohotthateveryonedied



Series: I See Dead People [5]
Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, DCU (Comics), Red Robin (Comics), Robin (Comics), Teen Titans (Comics)
Genre: Angst, Character Death, Dead Conner Kent, Dick Grayson is a good big brother, Drug Abuse, Drug Addiction, Drug Use, Drug Withdrawal, Gen, Ghosts, Grief/Mourning, Hallucinations, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Medical Inaccuracies, Presumed Dead Bruce Wayne, Protective Kon-El | Conner Kent, Tim Drake Has Mental Health Issues, Tim Drake Whump, Tim Drake-centric, Underage Drug Use, Vomiting, a phone call, also tim and conner are highkey in love in this, boy who sees ghosts and becomes addicted to drugs to block them out? check, did i tag him anyway because i love him? also yeah, does eddie only have a minor cameo in this? yeah, drug addiction is his turf, he cares about tim so much!!, i mean it is for me because hell yeah drama, i mean it's pretty vague but, it was intended to be platonic and turned romantic so i'm sticking with it, look i couldn't not include him okay, roy is there too for like, that's his kid brother he loves him and wants what's best for him!!, the gay vibes were intentional, this is probably so medically inaccurate but we're glossing over it okay~, tim and conner are really gay, tim is addicted to pills and it's Not Fun, too bad tim won't listen to any of his advice, very obviously based on the umbrella academy, we're all just here to have a good time
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-13
Updated: 2020-11-21
Packaged: 2021-03-10 03:00:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,768
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27547219
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sohotthateveryonedied/pseuds/Sohotthateveryonedied
Summary: Conner stands in front of him now, putting Tim at eye-level with his chin. When Tim doesn’t look up from his notes, Conner blocks the data sheet with a translucent hand. “You’re being a dumbass. You need to start taking care of yourself again.”Tim turns away. “Yeah, well, I need my best friend back more. You should be all for that, so would it kill you to shut up and let me work?” Fuck. He needs a pill. He takes one from the handful he keeps in his utility belt and swallows it dry, ignoring Conner’s damning stare.
Relationships: Tim Drake & Kon-El | Conner Kent, Tim Drake/Kon-El | Conner Kent
Series: I See Dead People [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1557490
Comments: 63
Kudos: 491





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Okay so this takes place before the most recent fic I posted in the series, but also a little after it. Things kinda intersect in this one, but all you really need to know is that Conner dies, then Bruce dies, and shortly after Bruce's death, Tim comes clean to Dick about seeing ghosts. Yeah. This whole universe gets more complicated the more I add to it, but no one said I knew how to make things easy lmao.

Conner Kent has been dead for three months, two weeks, and six days.   
  
“Initiate cloning attempt number twenty-one.”   
  
Tim can feel eyes on his back, burning through the skin and searing his spine. If he didn’t already know that ghosts can’t use heat vision, he might be concerned. “I can feel you judging me.”   
  
“Good. My face is sore from scowling.”   
  
Conner is leaning against one of the room’s glass pods, his arms crossed over the torn S-symbol on his chest. His normally carefree atmosphere has been replaced with an air of judgement—a mile leap from the Conner Kent who was all brass and thunder, jokes and lifting contests with Cassie.    
  
It makes Tim feel like even more of a creep than he already does, skulking around in the basement of Titans Tower with Conner’s eyes on him the entire time. The shame of his actions has weight now, getting heavier with every advancement he makes. He resents Conner’s presence as much as he needs it. Craves it.    
  
“You need to stop this,” Conner says, not for the first time.   
  
Tim doesn’t look at him. He prints out the latest data report in a foot-long sheet. There must be some component to the cloning process that he’s missing. Some bonding agent he hasn’t considered. “Then drag me out of the room.”   
  
“I’m serious, Tim. You passed the point of crazy, like, two weeks ago.”   
  
“Since when is saving a life considered crazy?”   
  
“Since there’s no life left to  _ save.  _ I’m dead, Tim. And yeah, it sucks, but there’s nothing we can do about it. You can’t keep working like this.”   
  
“Watch me.”    
  
“You’re killing yourself. You realize that, right?” If Tim could walk away knowing that Conner wouldn’t just follow him like a worm on a string, he would. “When’s the last time you ate? The last time you slept? Do you even know what day it is?”   
  
“January.”   
  
“This is irresponsible. It’s  _ stupid.  _ If Bruce knew how far gone you were, he’d take you off active duty for a week. Probably longer.”   
  
“Which is why he’ll never find out.”   
  
“That’s not the point, Tim!” Conner makes no audible footsteps, but Tim can sense when he comes nearer, like a tugging sensation in his stomach. Tim has his own gravitational pull, it seems; any ghosts in the area are drawn towards him like magnets. He can always feel Kon, no matter how far away he is.   
  
Conner stands in front of him now, putting Tim at eye-level with his chin. When Tim doesn’t look up from his notes, Conner blocks the data sheet with a translucent hand. “You’re being a dumbass. You need to start taking care of yourself again.”   
  
Tim turns away. “Yeah, well, I need my best friend back more. You should be all for that, so would it kill you to shut up and let me work?” Fuck. He needs a pill. He takes one from the handful he keeps in his utility belt and swallows it dry, ignoring Conner’s damning stare.   
  
He’s been needing more, lately. He hadn’t noticed until Conner brought it up a few days ago, but Tim has upped the dosage to six, seven pills a day. He tries not to think about what’s changed. Even if he  _ is  _ using drugs to cope with the circumstances the universe has thrown his way, it’s not like he would be completely clean, otherwise. Feeling like his grief is miles away with every dose is just a happy side effect. It’s manageable.   
  
Conner shakes his head. “I can’t believe you.”   
  
“What am I doing that’s so wrong?”   
  
“The fact that you shouldn’t be doing this in the  _ first place.  _ I’ve accepted what happened. Why can’t you?”   
  
“Maybe I don’t want to accept it.”   
  
“Do you really think that bringing me back to life is going to help anything?”   
  
“Don’t you  _ want  _ to be alive? To see Clark again, Cassie, Martha, everyone who loved you? Don’t you  _ want  _ that?”   
  
“Of course I do.”   
  
Tim throws his hands in the air. “Then why are you fighting me on this? How can you stand there and tell me that I’m not doing the right thing when I’m trying to accomplish something that’ll make everyone  _ happy?”  _   
  
“Because it won’t work.” Conner materializes in Tim’s path again, forcing Tim to look at him. It’s painful to see the open wounds on once impenetrable skin, the smoldering edges of his t-shirt. Instead, he focuses on Conner’s face. Unblemished. Untarnished. Just as it was in life.    
  
“Tim, even if you find a way to make this cloning stuff work, I won’t be there. You have to understand that. You’re too smart not to. It’ll just be another cheap copy of the original, like Match and Bizarro. But me—the  _ real  _ me? I’m staying right here, dead as hell. You can’t change that.”   
  
Tim waves a hand. “That’s just a minor setback. Once I get the cloning process perfected, all I have to do is call up Constantine or Zatanna and convince them to help me figure out how to restore your soul. You’ll be back in a brand new body, and everything will be back to normal.”   
  
“Do you hear yourself, man? You sound like a crazy person. You sound like  _ Lex.” _   
  
“I don’t care.”   
  
“You should!” Conner explodes, his eyes glowing with radiation he can’t unleash. “You  _ should  _ fucking care! What, do you think I’m going to come back to life and pretend that the cost of it wasn’t you destroying all the good parts of yourself? Do you think I’ll just  _ forgive  _ myself for that?”   
  
Tim shrugs. He should be feeling more, but the meds have kicked in by now. A pleasant hum runs through his blood. “That’s exactly what I expect. It’s what happened with Jason, remember?” Tim goes back to the computer to upload the latest attempt report. “You don’t remember being dead, just blinking out and blinking back in. Everything that you experienced while you were gone, it all gets erased. You won’t even remember this conversation.”   
  
Conner shakes his head. Tim would be lying if he said the disappointment on his face didn’t make his stomach twist. “This isn’t right. I care about you too much to sit back and watch you lose yourself like this.”   
  
“Do you think I want you here, watching me fall apart? I know how crazy this looks. I know I must be breaching every ethical code in the book. And I would give _ anything _ to make you go away long enough so I can work in peace, but I can’t control that. The ghosts stay, whether I like it or not. So if you can find a way to check out on your own, then be my guest.”    
  
Tim turns back to the computer, his eyes stinging. He takes another pill.   
  
Conner sighs. Tim can feel him hovering behind his shoulder, a mop of messy black hair in the corner of his eye. Tim shivers when Conner touches his shoulder. “I miss you, Tim. I’m sorry my death broke you.”   
  
“Yeah. Me too.”   
  
  


* * *

  
  
As stressful as it is being the leader of a bunch of clueless teenagers, at least they’re unobservant. Tim can be more lax about his habit here. If he ever gets caught taking a pill, he can say it’s a painkiller for an old injury. He can tell the semi-truth and admit he struggles with anxiety. At the manor, he must be hypervigilant about the drugs to keep anyone from catching on that not all is as it seems.   
  
Tim searches his room at Titans Tower, rifling through the drawers and throwing discarded clothes and objects on the floor. He tries to be quiet to avoid disturbing the others, but he grows more frantic by the minute.   
  
Rose is a light sleeper, and it’s just poor luck that her room is closest to Tim’s. She’ll never let Tim live it down if she finds out their fearless leader needs benzodiazepines to keep his life from spiraling out of control. Vic would be disappointed. Eddie would lose all respect for him. Cassie would finally have a problem to set her focus on that isn’t about losing Conner.   
  
Tim dumps out his desk drawer, littering the floor in pens, post-its, and spare masks. Nothing. “Damn it.”   
  
“What are you looking for?” Conner asks.   
  
“My meds.”   
  
“Didn’t you already take some a few hours ago?”   
  
“I need more.” Tim rummages around under his bed, pulling out crumpled papers and sifting through dust bunnies.   
  
“This is addiction. You know that, right?”   
  
“No, this is  _ medicine.  _ Medicine that I need to be able to function the way everyone needs me to. It’s healthy.”   
  
“Uh-huh, sure. And what happens if you go off it?”   
  
“You know what happens.” Withdrawal. Headaches. Shaky muscles. Ghosts.   
  
“Would that really be so bad?”   
  
“Yes, Conner, it”—Tim grunts when his head knocks against the bed frame as he sits up—“it  _ would  _ be that bad. You know exactly how bad it can be. You  _ are  _ how bad it can be.”   
  
“You can always get rid of me.”   
  
Tim knocks over his desk chair, sending it crashing against the far wall. “No, I can’t! Haven’t you been listening? I don’t have any control over this! I can’t just  _ make  _ the ghosts go away at will. This is the only thing that works!”   
  
Conner’s expression doesn’t change but for a sagging of his shoulders. “You really hate me that much?”   
  
“The opposite. It hurts like hell seeing you here, not even being able to hug you. If I could make you go away, I would. It would be better for both of us.”   
  
“You can’t just—”   
  
Someone knocks on the door. “Robin?”    
  
“Shit,” Tim hisses. He kicks as much of the clutter under the bed as he can, but it’s not much of an improvement. He quickly plasters on a mask and opens the door. Eddie stands in the hall, his hair in a messy bun and his eyes glowing orange in the dim space. He wears a pair of Superman pajama pants.   
  
Tim holds the door open halfway, blocking Eddie’s view into the room. “Hey. Did you need something?”   
  
Eddie scratches the back of his neck. “Sorry to bother you, it just...it kinda sounded like you were yelling at somebody? I wanted to make sure no one, like, broke into the tower again or something.”   
  
“I was just on the phone with Batman.”   
  
“Oh. Is everything okay?”   
  
“It’s fine. He’s just...well, you know how he can be.”   
  
“I heard some stuff moving around.”   
  
“I was organizing my room. I organize things when I’m stressed.”   
  
Eddie shifts awkwardly. “I guess that makes sense.”   
  
“Yep. Everything’s perfectly fine.” Tim tries not to look as impatient as he feels, but it’s a battle. He fakes a yawn. “Was that all? Because I’m kind of tired, so…”   
  
Eddie blinks. “Yeah, sorry about...” He jerks a thumb back to his own room. “I’ll just go now.”   
  
“Goodnight, Eddie.”   
  
“G—”   
  
Tim shuts the door. He waits until he hears a sigh on the other side, then footsteps retreating down the hallway. He presses his back to the door and releases a breath. Close call.   
  
Conner is sitting on Tim’s bed, one eyebrow raised. “He’s  _ definitely  _ not going to suspect anything, now.”   
  
“Shut up.” He’ll apologize to Eddie in the morning.   
  
Now, where hasn’t he looked yet? The stash Tim keeps in his nightstand ran out around noon today, but there  _ must  _ be an extra bottle somewhere. He’s too smart to forget spares. He rips the sheets off his bed and checks the lining of the mattress for loose pills.   
  
“Why am I different from the others?” Conner asks.   
  
“You’re still on this? Can’t I get a few minutes of peace?”   
  
“I’m serious. Why isn’t your dad here, or your mom, or someone else you cared about? Why am I the only one who keeps coming back?”   
  
“Because you’re a persistent ass?” When Conner says nothing, Tim sighs. He rips open his pillow with a batarang and sifts through the stuffing. “I understand this ghost nonsense about as much as you do.”   
  
“Because you don’t  _ try  _ to understand. You just shut it out.”   
  
“And I’m perfectly okay with that. It’s better than wasting my time trying to figure out why I can’t get rid of you.”   
  
“I think you need me.”   
  
Tim rips open a second pillow, pulling out stuffing by the handful. “I don’t  _ want  _ to need you. Not this version of you. If you want to do me a favor, then be quiet and let me bring you back. I can’t have you watching me every second, judging every move I make.”   
  
“Somebody has to. You know you haven’t eaten in two days?”   
  
Tim didn’t know that, actually. He shrugs. “So? I’ve gone longer.” His hand closes around something and he crows in triumph. He pulls out a small plastic baggie with a handful of pills in it. He  _ knew  _ he had extras in here. He pops two into his mouth, closing his eyes as the daze takes effect.   
  
“You need to stop this, Tim. You need help.”   
  
Tim doesn’t care. He  _ can’t  _ care—not when the only thought his mind can latch onto is,  _ wow, if only everyone could feel like this.  _ Weightless. Free. Like he’s drowning, but without the panic, without the wrenching suffocation. Swimming in the fog, Tim can  _ breathe. _   
  
He sits on his gutted bed and leans against the backboard, letting the drugs soak into his system. Everything quiets. He can still see Conner, can still hear his droning lecture, but he’s muted. He warbles, like he’s speaking from underwater.   
  
It’s bearable. It’s enough.   
  
  


* * *

  
  
Tim knows what the others are saying about him. As humiliating as it is, he can’t blame them for it. He would be concerned, too.   
  
First his parents, then Conner, then Bart, and now Bruce. The dominoes keep falling, one after the other, and Tim can’t hold them up. He loses every time.   
  
He sits outside of the Batcave after Dick and Alfred think he’s left for upstairs, listening in on their conversation. Not the most honorable move, eavesdropping, but when one is the topic of someone else’s conversation, questionable morals get the green light.   
  
_ “I’m sure losing Bruce so close to losing his father to Boomerang and Conner to Superboy-Prime and Bart to the Rogues—hell, all that loss back to back…” _ Dick sighs. Tim can picture him running a hand through his hair, feeling the weight of Gotham as well as Wayne Manor settling on his shoulders. _  
_ _  
_ _ “He appears to be in denial,”  _ Alfred says. _  
_ _  
_ _ “We all deal with death in our own way. If this is how Tim’s gonna cope with it, then we have to respect that.” _   
  
Tim considers making his presence known—maybe arguing, protesting that they don’t know what they’re talking about. But don’t they? Is what they’ve said so untrue? If Tim  _ weren’t _ in denial like they say, he wouldn’t be waiting for Bruce to come home. He wouldn’t still be scouring the known universe for ways to resurrect Conner. He wouldn’t be searching for Bart every night, hoping to finally track down his spirit.   
  
If Tim is in denial, then he’s perfectly fine staying where he is. Denial is painless. It’s weightless. Tim slips a pill past his lips and stands, brushing the dirt from his jeans. Dick and Alfred’s voices warp under the drug-induced haze, their words no more than music notes in the distance.   
  
Everything is easier with drugs.

* * *

  
  
Tim didn’t bring any pills with him to the cemetery. He’s starting to regret that now. It wasn’t because he knew Cassie would find him there, nor was it because he was afraid of getting caught. Even while knowing that the body in the ground wasn’t Bruce’s, it felt like Tim would be desecrating something.   
  
Bruce would be so disappointed if he knew that his death was the reason Tim loses count of how many pills he takes each day.    
  
Dick doesn’t believe him. Tim told him the truth—the  _ whole  _ truth, ghosts and all—and  _ still  _ he doesn’t believe that Bruce is alive. Tim shared secrets with Dick that he’s never shared with another living person before, and he just. Didn’t believe him.    
  
Maybe Bruce is simply too difficult to find, he said. Maybe his ghost didn’t stick around. Maybe Tim’s abilities don’t work the way he thinks they do. Anything but the truth.    
  
Tim did  _ everything  _ he could, but it wasn’t enough. He went off his meds for as long as he could stand it, tried  _ so hard _ to conjure Bruce, but he was met with silence every time. That means Bruce  _ has to  _ be alive. How can Dick not see that?   
  
Tim went to the cemetery to clear his head. Then, when Cassie showed up wanting to help, Tim let himself believe that someone might be in his corner after all. Dick didn’t believe him, but Cassie would. Titans trust each other, to the very end.   
  
But she thinks he’s crazy, just like the rest of them. And now, when Tim is so horribly alone, he has only one thing to lean on. One thing left to keep him afloat.   
  
Tim slams his bedroom door shut, lacking the energy to care about Alfred’s door-slamming policy. Tim isn’t sticking around Gotham long enough for him to enforce any punishment. He drops to his knees and prods the floorboards under his bed, searching for the loose one.   
  
“Tim—” Conner starts from somewhere behind him.   
  
“Shut up. Don’t talk to me.”   
  
“You need to slow down. Think for a minute.”   
  
“Actually, I don’t have to do  _ anything  _ you tell me. You’re dead. Your opinion is irrelevant now.” Tim finds the loose board and struggles to pry it up, digging his fingers into the tiny crevices between the wood. One of his fingernails cracks and bleeds.   
  
“I’m still your friend.”   
  
“Then you know I love you when I say that you need to shut the  _ fuck up  _ and leave me alone.” Tim manages to free the board, revealing the bag of pills he smuggled under there a year ago for emergencies. It’s enough to keep him going for three days, easy.   
  
“Will you at least look at me? You’re starting to freak me out.” Conner lets out a heavy sigh. “I know you’re going through a hard time, but maybe Cassie had a point. Maybe you  _ should  _ talk to someone.”   
  
“I know I’m right.”   
  
“You said the same thing about me, and where has it gotten you? Nowhere.”   
  
Tim wheels on Conner, making the boy of steel flinch. “How can you say that? You know me better than anyone. You  _ know  _ what it means if I can’t see him.”   
  
“No, I don’t! That’s the point, Tim! Not everyone sticks around after they die. Why else haven’t you gotten in touch with Bart yet, huh?”   
  
Tim tightens his hold on the bag. “I’m working on that.”   
  
“You’re denying what’s right in front of you. I love you, but you need to face the facts. Sometimes you can’t reach people after they die. And Bruce? He  _ died,  _ Tim. Clark watched it happen. He gave you a  _ body  _ to bury.”   
  
“That’s not good enough for me!”   
  
“Why not? Why isn't it good enough? Do you have any idea how lucky you are? When you lose someone, at least you still get to  _ see them.  _ You don’t have to lose anything.”   
  
“Then why does it feel like all I do is lose?” Tim demands. “If this is such a blessing, why is everyone I care about  _ gone?” _   
  
“I’m still here.” Conner reaches out to touch Tim, to take his hand, but his fingers pass right through him. Just as they always do. A shudder rattles Tim’s spine. Goosebumps riddle the skin Conner touched. “I know it’s not the same, but at least it’s  _ something,  _ right?”   
  
Tim steps back, away from his ghostly touch. “It’s not enough. It’s not  _ fair.  _ So many people come back from the dead: Jason, Oliver, Clark, Steph. Why can’t you? Why can’t  _ he?” _ Tim doesn’t care that his voice breaks on the last word. He doesn’t care that there are tears dripping onto the rug between his feet.   
  
Conner swallows hard. “Tim—”   
  
“No. Stop talking.” Tim covers his ears. When did his heart start beating so quickly? “Go away. I don’t want you here.”   
  
“Yes, you do.”   
  
“No. I want the  _ real  _ Conner. He’s—he’s real and solid and alive, and  _ you’re not him.  _ You’re not.”   
  
Ghosts can’t cry. The closest they can get are dry, tearless sobs. Conner looks halfway there. “I’m sorry, Tim. I really am, but I’m dead. And so is Bruce.” He reaches forward again, a silhouette of icy fog.    
  
Tim jerks away. “Don’t fucking touch me. Get out.”   
  
“I can’t.”   
  
“Get the fuck out!” Tim grabs the nearest object—a bottle of cologne Alfred gave him one birthday—and throws it at the apparition. It shatters against Tim’s dresser. “Get out of here! Get out of my head, out of my life, get  _ out!” _   
  
This is torture. It’s  _ torture.  _ Seeing Kon, hearing his voice, but not being able to feel him. Not being able to  _ hug  _ him. Conner is gone but present at the same time, trapped in a purgatory for them both. No, worse than purgatory—this is  _ hell.  _ It’s the worst hell Tim is ever going to get.    
  
But it doesn’t have to be. Tim opens the bag of pills: lorazepam, diazepam, alprazolam, and assorted others that Tim can’t identify. It doesn’t matter. Not anymore.   
  
He downs a handful, not bothering to think about consequences. He doesn’t care. He  _ can’t  _ care—not when the drugs kick in almost immediately, making his head swim. He just wants it to  _ stop. _   
  
Conner is yelling Tim’s name somewhere far away. Tim can’t see his face, and it takes a moment for him to realize that he’s fallen to the floor. He apparently caught himself on the puddle of sharp-smelling cologne and broken glass. His sinuses hurt worse than his hand, but it takes only a minute for that sensation to fade as well. Tim drifts, rolling with the current wherever it’ll take him.   
  
Conner’s voice gets frantic, and in the back of Tim’s mind, guilt pangs the pieces of him that can still feel. Conner couldn’t do anything now if he wanted to. Ghosts observe, nothing more. Conner’s voice gets quieter and quieter as Tim slips away into the blissful fog, until pretty soon Tim can’t hear him at all.   
  
Finally.  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> VOTE ON WHETHER YOU THINK TIM SHOULD LIVE OR DIE!!!!
> 
> (JK I already know what’s gonna happen to Tim, but that’s for me to know and for you to find out when the next chapter gets posted. Eventually.)
> 
> (Also in case you were wondering, the reason that Tim can’t sense Bart’s spirit is because speedsters go to a different afterlife for speed force reasons. It's a whole thing.)


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So much of this is taken from Umbrella Academy but I couldn't help myself okay!! I'm just a person!! I'm weak!!

Tim is dead. He knows that much.   
  
He recognizes this place—has spent weekends here with Kon, the sun bright and the scent of apple pie wafting across the cornfields. The two of them would lie on the grass at night, watching the stars and dreaming of places farther than the eye can see.    
  
Tim’s missed Kansas.   
  
The sky is bright blue but there is no sun above as if a giant hand ripped it from the sky. Even so, Tim can feel its warmth on his skin, can see its blinding light reflecting off every surface and casting the scene in vibrant colors. Tim can’t see the horizon, just a white mist surrounding Kent Farm’s acres like impending fog.    
  
Is this heaven? Purgatory? It’s strange to think that this could be Tim’s eternity. He was always so certain he would end up in Hell.   
  
“Tim?”   
  
Tim turns, and it’s  _ him.  _ Not a spirit, not a corpse in a pile of rubble, but  _ him— _ flesh, blood, bone. Tim throws himself at him without a second thought, hugging Conner as tightly as he can. For the first time since one of the worst days of Tim’s life, he can feel Conner—feel his skin under his fingertips and his warmth against Tim’s cheek.   
  
“Tell me you’re real,” Tim says. “You’re—you’re not a hallucination or one of those visions people see when they die. You’re  _ him,  _ right? The real one?”   
  
“It’s me, Tim.”   
  
Tim buries his face in Conner’s shoulder, lets the tears soak into his shirt. It’s not ripped anymore. Conner is warm, warm as a summer day—gone is the ghostly chill he used to carry with him. The only thing missing now is a heartbeat.   
  
Tim doesn’t lift his head. “I’m dead, aren’t I?”   
  
Conner nods. “Why’d you do it, Tim? Why couldn’t you have just listened to me?”   
  
“I wanted the noise to stop.” Tim should be more broken up about it. He’s dead now. He’s just lost everything—his family, his home, his  _ life.  _ But he doesn’t care about that now. He’s happy. He’s wanted this for so long that, now that he’s here, he couldn’t care less about the rest. This, right here, is where he wants to be.   
  
“You can’t stay here.”   
  
Tim pulls away. His eyebrows knit, confused. “What? Why not?”   
  
“Because you can’t. It doesn’t work that way.”   
  
“Yes, it does.”   
  
“Not for you.”   
  
“But I’m dead. I  _ died,  _ Kon. You don’t—you don’t come back from that. That’s what  _ you  _ told me.”   
  
Conner’s forehead is pinched in sorrow. Tim wants to smooth it out with his fingers. “I know.”   
  
“Then why can’t I stay with you?”   
  
“Because you can’t. I would tell you why if I knew the answer, but I don’t. I just know that you can’t stay for long.”   
  
“That’s not fair.” Tim hugs him tighter, clutching Conner’s t-shirt, daring the powers that be to pry him away by force. “This isn’t fair. It’s not f-fucking fair.”   
  
Arms encircle him. “No, it isn’t.”   
  
“I don’t want to go back. I can’t do it without you.”   
  
“I’m not going anywhere. I’ll still be around to piss you off, wherever you go.” It’s supposed to be a joke, but all Tim can detect in Conner’s voice is sadness. They’re both cursed, life and death separating them with Tim’s ability as the only crack in the wall. It’s a meager compensation at best.   
  
“It’s not the same,” Tim says. “It just makes me miss you more.”   
  
“I’m sorry, Tim. I wish—”   
  
In a flash, faster than Tim can think to hope for more time or clutch Kon tighter, the scene is gone. The rolling fields of Kansas dissolve, taking away Conner with them. There isn’t time to react, much less rightfully scream at the world for snatching away every lifeline the second Tim gets a firm grip, because suddenly he’s waking up in the Batcave’s medical bay.   
  
“Conner?” Tim mumbles. He blinks a few times, willing the blurriness to recede. His head throbs, pulsing behind his eyeballs with every heartbeat. He spots Conner at the foot of Tim’s bed, looking as sad as he does relieved to see Tim awake. A notch in Tim’s chest loosens at the sight.   
  
Something brushes against Tim’s arm. He looks and finds an IV in his elbow, follows the tube up to a bag of clear fluid hanging by his bedside. If Tim were less groggy, he would admonish himself for the thrill that surges in his gut at the sight. Morphine? No, it can’t be. If it were morphine, he would feel less like roadkill someone scraped off the freeway.

“Flumazenil,” Dick explains. He appears at Tim’s side, and Tim honestly can’t tell if he just came over or if he’s been here the entire time. “Nothing that’ll give you a high.”   
  
“’m not a junkie.”   
  
“Could have fooled me.” He hands Tim a glass of water, which Tim takes gratefully. His mouth tastes sour, like bile. “You have to stop this, Tim.”   
  
“Stop what?”   
  
“You know exactly what.”   
  
Tim rolls his eyes. “You think I haven’t tried? I’ve gone off the meds before, but it gets bad after too long. It’s easier this way.”   
  
“That’s not an excuse.” Asshole. If Tim weren’t so fucking weak, he might slap him. What gives him the right to judge Tim for something he knows nothing about?   
  
“You don’t know what it’s like.”   
  
“Maybe I don’t, but I do know that this can’t keep going on. You nearly died today.”   
  
Oh, yeah. That. “Who found me?”   
  
“Cass. She thought you were dead.” Poor Cass. She must have been terrified, finding her brother having OD'd on the floor like that. He’ll apologize the next time he sees her.    
  
“It was a mistake, okay? I wasn’t thinking properly. It won’t happen again.”   
  
“You’re right it won’t, because I flushed all of your pills.”   
  
Tim sits up suddenly, his heart imploding on itself. “You  _ what?” _   
  
“I won’t stand by and watch you kill yourself. Not anymore. You need to find a new way to cope that isn’t by pumping poison into your body.”   
  
“You had no right!” It’s going to take him  _ weeks  _ to replenish his stashes.    
  
“And you had no right trying to off yourself!”   
  
“I wasn’t trying to kill myself, I just—I slipped up, okay? Don’t act like you’ve never made a mistake before.”   
  
“It doesn’t matter if it was intentional or not. You’re killing yourself, Tim. I know you know that. You’ve studied every drug in our database, you’ve seen the addicts we deal with, you  _ knew _ what would happen. Why did you let it?”   
  
“I’m not a crackhead, Dick. I’m not prowling through alleys, hitting up dealers for coke. I’m taking  _ prescription  _ drugs. Real medications for a real anxiety condition.”    
  
Sure, he’s contacted some known dealers for cases of the stuff, but he always took them down as Robin the next night, so that must count for something, right? He’s being safe about it. (Except for the time he tried Ketamine, but that just made him dissociate for ten hours straight and wake up on his couch in the dark, having missed the whole day. Tim gave up on that quickly. He has too many things on his plate to play catch-up every time he needs a high.)   
  
“Really?” Dick holds up a clear plastic bag containing dozens of empty pill bottles, everything that was stashed in Tim’s room. Tim has to hold himself back from snatching it out of Dick’s hands. “So every single one of these was prescribed to you by a doctor? That’s what you’re trying to tell me?”   
  
Tim scowls. “Neither are half the painkillers the people in this family take, but sure, be a hypocrite.”   
  
“You’re an addict.”   
  
“This is  _ healthy.  _ What, would you rather I spend every day half out of it because I can’t hear you over the corpses screaming in my head? Do you want me unable to solve cases because I can’t go five hours without having a panic attack?”   
  
“I want you to quit. I want you to get better.”   
  
“Except there’s no better to get! This is me, Dick, for as long as you’ve known me. This is who I am.”   
  
“It’s not. It  _ never  _ used to be like this. And trust me, I get it. You’ve lost more than anyone should, and it was my job to look out for you. I should have seen the signs before it got this bad. But I was stupid, and I let you get caught up in all this. If you want a therapist, I can help you with that. If you want to talk, I’ll listen. But you can’t bury the pain with drugs. Not anymore.”   
  
“It’s about time,” Conner says. He’s leaning against the wall now, his arms crossed and looking smug as hell. Tim was wondering when he would join in on the Fuck Tim Drake party.   
  
“Shut up,” Tim tells him.   
  
Dick follows Tim’s eye line to where Conner stands, but of course, he can’t see anything. This burden is all Tim’s. “Who is it?”   
  
“Conner.”   
  
“He’s agreeing with me, isn’t he?”   
  
“No.”   
  
“Yes,” Conner says.   
  
“I’m an adult, Dick. I can make my own decisions.”   
  
“Actually, you’re seventeen, and since Bruce is gone, that means I’m your acting legal guardian.” Dick looks so proud of himself. Tim wants to smack him in the mouth.   
  
“So you’re holding me prisoner?”   
  
“I’m helping you get  _ better.”  _ Dick goes to grab Tim’s hand, but he yanks it away. “Please, Tim, this has to stop. You scared the shit out of me today. I thought you were  _ dead.” _   
  
“I’ll reduce the dosage.”   
  
“Tim.”   
  
“I’ll change the prescription to something milder.”   
  
“You’re quitting. I already had Alfred clear the manor of anything stronger than children’s Tylenol. Anything else is locked up where you can’t get it.”   
  
Panic stirs in Tim’s ribcage at the thought of not having drugs within reach. He  _ always  _ has a stash nearby, whether that be in his utility belt, his room, or a secret compartment in Titans Tower. Tim hasn’t gone more than three days without a dose in...well, his entire life.   
  
At least Dick didn’t lock up the painkillers in the Batcave’s med bay. It’s not great pickings, but it should be enough to tide him over for a few days.   
  
“And I locked up all of the painkillers in the med bay.”   
  
Shit. “I’ll leave.”   
  
Dick smiles, but it’s not a happy one—more like pity for a pathetic creature. If Tim looked in a mirror, he’s sure he’d see a dying puppy in his place. “Which is why I’m taking the week off to keep an eye on you. And when I’m not around, Alfred will be here.”   
  
Tim groans and considers the effectiveness of asphyxiating oneself with an IV line. “Why are you doing this to me?”   
  
“Because we love you and we want you to get better.”   
  
“At the cost of the right to make my own decisions?”   
  
There’s that kicked puppy look again. Dick must have been practicing while Tim was unconscious. “Yep. Because like it or not, this is what’s best for you. And deep down, I know you know that.”   
  
“Don’t tell me what I know. You have no  _ idea  _ what you’re talking about. Quitting the meds will just make things worse.”   
  
“Stop trying to change my mind, because I’ll tell you right now that it won’t work. I’m not letting you get out of this. Even if you hate me for it.”   
  
“I will.”   
  
Dick shrugs. “And that’s okay. As long as you’re clean, I don’t care about the rest.”   
  
Damn it.   
  
  


* * *

  
  
Detox fucking  _ sucks. _   
  
It’s been less than a week, and Tim has already had enough. The first 48 hours were the worst. It entailed two straight days of muscle aches so bad it felt like his skeleton was starting a mutiny, sweating out at least half of his body weight, and migraines that made it so even a flicker of light in the room was  _ blinding. _ Not to mention the anxiety, which has amped up to levels even Tim can barely handle. He had a panic attack when someone closed a  _ door  _ too suddenly down the hallway.   
  
He doesn’t know how much longer he can do this.   
  
Tim has gone without his meds before, but never so suddenly. He’s never gone from popping five, six pills a day to none at  _ all.  _ Even all those other times he took a break to talk to someone special, it was never as bad as this.    
  
Alfred gives him small doses to curb some of the withdrawal symptoms, but it’s only enough to take off the edge. It’s not enough to actually satisfy him or make any of this more bearable.   
  
Tim would sleep through it all if he could, but insomnia is just one more lovely symptom he can’t shake. Tim lies awake at night, drenched in sweat and shivering under two comforters as the voices of vengeful spirits occupy every inch of his consciousness, forcing him to hear their cacophony of suffering.    
  
Some are bold enough to show up physically, wispy figures taking the shape of dead friends, teammates, civilians he couldn’t save. He sees mangled corpses from the quake years ago, their heads caved in and their limbs twisted. He sees throes of Ebola victims, blood streaming from their eyes as they reach for Tim, begging fate for a second chance they will never get.   
  
He hears empty solaces, feeble attempts at making this hell seem any better.   
  
_ “I know this sucks and it feels like it’ll last forever, but I promise it won’t.” _ _  
_ _  
_ _ “Getting clean is a good thing, Master Tim. Remember that.” _ _  
_ _  
_ Conner’s voice.  _ “Stop whining, druggie. You can fight monsters and demons, but withdrawal is what downs you? Shameful. Inexcusable. I’m revoking your friendship card.”  _ Shockingly, his comments help the most. It’s the only levity Tim gets in this detox hell.   
  
Tim’s head is in Dick’s lap now, 144 hours since his last real dose (yes, he’s been counting). He’s been trying to fall asleep for hours with no luck, not that it’s any surprise. Amid the muscle cramps and non-stop shaking, Tim fantasizes about Xanax, Ativan, and Valium. He dreams about morphine and codeine and oxy—whatever it takes to make this  _ stop.  _ Just five minutes of peace is all he’s asking for. Five minutes would be everything.   
  
Small footsteps putter to a stop in the open doorway. “Grayson,” an insufferably squeaky voice says.  _ Goddamn it. _ Tim reaches blindly for a pillow and pulls it over his head in a vain attempt to block it out. “Are you coming on patrol?”   
  
“Sorry, kiddo, not tonight.”   
  
“I can go on my own.”   
  
Dick snorts. “Fat chance. Do your homework, and if you finish that you can train in the cave. No suiting up.”   
  
He can’t see Damian, but Tim can sense his sneer the way a police hound sniffs out a druggie. Like Tim. “You’re blowing me off to coddle a drug addict?”   
  
Tim throws the pillow at him hard enough to bruise if only he didn’t miss the pint-size target by several feet. The pillow slams into the wall beside the door, knocking a Superman poster loose on its way down.   
  
Damian arches an eyebrow. “That was pathetic, even for you.”   
  
_ “Damian,”  _ Dick warns. “If you’re just going to be hostile, you can go back to your room.”   
  
“He’s the one who—”   
  
_ “Now.” _   
  
With a roll of his eyes, Damian gives Tim one last sneer and leaves. Finally. Tim would take store-brand misery over the special Damian variety any day. Dick cards his fingers through Tim’s hair, unwashed and tangled as it is. “Sorry about that. I’m still teaching him how empathy works.”   
  
Tim just grunts. What he wouldn’t give for a minute of sleep. Thirty seconds, even.   
  
“You want some soup?”   
  
“I want drugs.”    
  
“Alfred made chicken noodle. I can have him bring up a bowl.”   
  
“Get me some f-fucking drugs.” Tim pitches forward with a gag. Dick is just quick enough to thrust a trash bin in front of him to vomit into. Tim hasn’t been able to keep food down in days and has stopped eating altogether, but that does nothing to help the nausea. He spits up bile, dry heaving while Dick rubs his back. God, this is  _ torture. _   
  
And he’s not even halfway through it. From what Tim has read, benzo withdrawal can last  _ weeks. _ Tim is barely handling one.   
  
Suddenly something warm touches his hand and Tim flinches. He looks to the side and it’s  _ Bart, _ dead and wearing his old Kid Flash uniform even though Tim knows for a fact that he died as the Flash. Bart sits cross-legged on the bed next to Tim, silent and blurry at the edges, but he’s  _ here. _   
  
Despite how crappy he feels, Tim is overcome with relief at seeing the friend he’s never managed to summon, but the emotion stops cold in its tracks when he realizes there is something wrong with this picture. Bart’s bright, golden eyes are now blood red and sparking with electricity. Like Reverse-Flash. Like Zoom.   
  
Tim gasps. He fights out of Dick’s grip until he’s across the room, staring in horror at Not-Bart. “Go away! Get out of here.”   
  
“Tim?” Dick stands, wary. “What is it? What do you see?”   
  
Bart hasn’t moved—just stares at Tim, and Tim legitimately can’t tell if it’s a spirit or a hallucination because Bart is  _ never  _ still. “You weren’t there for me, Tim,” he says, and it sounds  _ so much  _ like the Bart he knew. “I died, and where were you? How long had it been since we last talked? Would you have noticed I was gone if someone didn’t tell you?”   
  
“I—”   
  
“Did you even  _ care  _ when you got the call?”   
  
Tim reaches blindly and throws a mug at the apparition: the “World’s Best Nerd” one Steph got him after he won first place at the science fair. It shatters against the wall, sprinkling ceramic shards over the bed. “Leave me alone!” He shuts his eyes, willing the ghost to leave.   
  
Hands land on Tim’s shoulders. “Hey, hey. Whatever you’re seeing, it’s not real. No one’s there. It’s just you and me.”   
  
When Tim opens his eyes, though, it’s not Dick in front of him, but his mother, her decaying corpse showing more bone than flesh. “Spoiled brat,” she hisses. “If I had known you would go running to Wayne the first chance you got, I wouldn’t have bothered. You were a mistake. A constant disappointment.”   
  
“Stop it.”   
  
“You’re  _ worthless.”  _   
  
“Shut up, shut up—” Tim can feel Dick’s arms around him, hear his voice in Tim’s ear telling him that what he’s seeing isn’t real, but he doesn’t understand. He’ll never understand how very real this is.    
  
“Tim. Timmy, look at me.” Dick’s voice has taken on a new urgency. It’s the only reason Tim obeys. He opens his eyes and Dick’s face is in front of him now, his breath fogging on each exhale even though it’s summer. Tim can see his own reflection in Dick’s eyes. He looks awful: dark circles beneath his eyes, pale skin, sweat shining on his face. He looks sick. He looks  _ dead,  _ just like every one of those corpses in his mind.   
  
“I don’t know who’s talking to you or what they’re saying, but you need to stop this.” Stop what? The lights in the room are flickering, possibly in the whole house, and it occurs to Tim that that’s  _ him.  _ He’s the one causing this.   
  
Tim can’t block them out. He can’t make them go away—not Bart, not Mom, not  _ Conner. _ He’s powerless against his own powers. “I don’t—I don’t know how—” He yelps, jerking away from the touch of a plague victim. He knows they’ll just go through him, but he  _ swears  _ he can still feel their toxic touch.   
  
“Hey, hey, it’s okay. They can’t do anything. Just ignore them.”   
  
Tim shakes his head, his breath hitching. “I can’t.”   
  
“Yes, you can. You can ignore them, Tim.”   
  
“Dick, I—please. Please, just get me some pills.” He wanted to be strong. He wanted to be strong enough to overcome this. But he’s  _ not  _ strong enough, that’s the problem.   
  
“Tim…”   
  
“I’m not fucking kidding, okay? I  _ need it.  _ It doesn’t have to be a lot, j-just enough to take the edge off. I won’t ask for more after that, I promise.”   
  
“You know I can’t do that.”   
  
Tim grips Dick’s wrist so tightly the skin turns white. “Dick, if you don’t get me some fucking meds right now, I swear to  _ god—” _   
  
Dick breaks his grip, bracing his hands on Tim’s shoulders. “Taking more is just going to make it worse. Trust me, detoxing is a  _ good thing.” _   
  
“No, it’s not! It sucks! It feels like I’m dying, and you won’t let me have the  _ one thing  _ that’ll make me feel better.”   
  
“Have you learned nothing from Roy? It was  _ hell  _ for him getting clean, and he’s fallen off the wagon more times than I can count. He  _ still  _ struggles with his sobriety—probably will for the rest of his life. Is that what you want for yourself? Do you want to stay an addict forever?”   
  
“Fuck this. Fuck you. There are  _ plenty _ of people in Gotham who can give me what I want.” Tim gets up and makes for the door, only to stumble and catch himself on the wall two seconds later, his head spinning. He tries to power through it, but as soon as he reaches for the doorknob, Jack Drake appears in his path. A gleaming boomerang sticks out of his blood-soaked shirt.   
  
“That’s right, run away,” he says, his voice like gravel. “God, you’re pathetic. You pretend to be a hero, but you hurt more people than you help. I’m ashamed to call you my son.”   
  
There isn’t enough space in the room. The spirits flock to Tim before he has time to back away, surrounding him in a mob of decay. Their anger is a thick, cloying thing that takes the place of the oxygen that used to be in the room. Tim can’t breathe. He can’t—   
  
A lightbulb explodes in the lamp on his nightstand. Then the fairy lights above his bed burst, one after the other, throwing the room into shadows. The television against the wall turns itself on, static blaring like something from  _ Poltergeist. _ The temperature drops until Tim can’t tell if he’s shivering from the cold, from fear, or from the withdrawal. Possibly all three. He collapses to his knees, covering his ears against the onslaught.   
  
“Tim, it’s okay,” Dick says from somewhere far away. How can he be so  _ calm?  _ “You’re having a panic attack. Breathe. You’re okay.”   
  
Except he  _ can’t  _ breathe, that’s the problem. He can feel Dick’s arms around him, holding him tight as he tries in vain to provide some sort of comfort, but it’s no use. Tim has learned by now that there’s only one way to silence the ghosts, and he can’t even have that.    
  
He has nothing.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
Tim doesn’t remember falling asleep. He has no idea how long the attack lasted or how it ended; he’s just relieved that it did. The room is dark, but the curtains might simply be drawn. It’s unlikely Tim was lucky enough to sleep through the night—or for more than a few hours at a time, for that matter.   
  
Tim doesn’t open his eyes, not yet. He feigns sleep as he listens to Dick, speaking in a whisper.   
  
“Yeah, we’re being careful about it. Alfred and I are keeping a close eye on him and keeping track of each dose. All of the meds we have are locked away where he can’t get them. I even locked up Bruce’s wine cellar, just in case.” A pause. “No. Absolutely not, Roy. Tim is feeling crappy enough as it is. I’m not shipping him off to some rehab center to be treated like another junkie. He’d never forgive me if I did that to him.”   
  
At least Dick is on Tim’s side regarding rehab. Dick mentioned it briefly when this whole mess started, but Tim shut it down quickly and it was never brought up again. Now all Dick has to do is cut the detox bullshit and get Tim some drugs, and they’ll be peachy. He’s only been awake for a few minutes and already he’s craving again.   
  
“I know, but what works for you might not work for Tim. One wrong move could run him off forever. I don’t want to lose him and find him dead in an alley next week, you know?” Roy asks a question over the phone, but it’s too faint for Tim to make out the words. “I’m not sure. I thought it was just the benzodiazepines, but I found some bottles of oxy and Vicodin when I looked through his room.”   
  
Crap. Tim didn’t think he would actually _ check _ the labels on the bottles. Granted, most of the meds were acquired through other means, anyway. One can only sneak into a pharmacy in disguise so many times before people start taking notice.   
  
“I just want...I don’t know, validation?” Dick says. “That I’m doing the right thing by making him quit? I know this is a good thing and he’ll thank me for it one day, but you should see him, man. He’s miserable. It brings me back to when he was dying of the Clench. And I keep telling myself that this could be saving his life, but it’s hard watching him suffer and not being able to help. Is there anything we can give him, just to make it a little easier on him? I know opioids are out of the question, but—I mean, there has to be  _ something, _ right?”   
  
Tim doesn’t have to hear Roy to know the answer.    
  
Dick sighs. “Yeah, I figured. It just sucks, not being about to make this better. Listen, when’s the next time you plan to be in Gotham? I was thinking you could maybe take Tim under your wing, be someone who understands what it’s like. It might make it easier on him.”   
  
Roy asks another question, this one longer than the last. Dick picks at the knee of his jeans.   
  
“His whole life, I think? He’s been on ‘em since Bruce and I met him, but it was nowhere  _ near  _ this bad back then. His idiot parents had him doped up since he was four or five, at least. He used to have night terrors after what happened at the circus that night, so my guess is this was their way of shutting him up. It just spiraled out of control from there.”   
  
Tim shouldn’t be so relieved that Dick didn’t tattle about Tim’s ghost-seeing abilities. After all, he  _ did  _ promise to keep the secret when Tim first told him, and Dick Grayson doesn’t break promises.   
  
Dick yawns. “Sorry, I’m exhausted. It’s almost two in the morning here. Tim is napping now, so I’m going to catch a quick shower and let him sleep. God knows he’s barely gotten any over the past week. Yeah, yeah, I’ll be firm, don’t worry. Tell Lian I said hi, okay?”   
  
Dick hangs up, stretching out his back until his joints pop. Tim keeps his eyes closed and his breathing steady, feigning sleep. Fingers ruffle his hair. The blanket is pulled up, tucked close around his chin. Tim shivers anyway. He listens as Dick leaves, closing the door quietly behind him.    
  
His footsteps are too light to hear down the hall, but it’s seconds later when Tim hears another door shut. Bingo. Tim throws off the blankets.    
  
Dick and Alfred may have combed through every inch of this room, but Tim always has a trick up his sleeve. He digs up the old DSI he hasn’t played in years. Tim hid a tiny baggie of pills in the back cartridge months ago for potential emergencies, which this definitely is.   
  
He needs...he needs a screwdriver. Something to turn the tiny screws in the back. Fuck, it’s hard to think. Tim’s vision blurs as his head pounds, the withdrawal taking no time to return in full force even after sleep. His hands tremble so badly he can hardly keep a grip on the thing.   
  
“Are you serious?”   
  
Ugh. “I was wondering when you’d show up.”   
  
Conner’s arms are crossed—a stance he seems to be taking more and more often. “You’re a fucking dumbass, you know that?”   
  
“That’s fascinating.” Tim looks around for a screwdriver, a knife, anything to get the cartridge open.    
  
“Dick was  _ just  _ talking about how much he wanted to help you, and you’re going to let him down like this?”   
  
“What he doesn’t know won’t kill him.”    
  
“This isn’t a joke, Tim. Have you learned nothing from the overdose? You nearly  _ died. _ Now you have a second chance, and you’re just going to waste it like this?”   
  
“Yep.” Tim fiddles with a batarang, trying to twist the screws out, but the blade is too thick.   
  
“You’re just prolonging the problem.”   
  
“No, I’m fixing the problem. There’s a difference.”   
  
“You keep saying you’re not a drug addict, but here you are, relapsing barely a week after quitting. Some detective you are. You can’t even see a problem that’s right in front of you.”   
  
Tim spins to face Conner, his jaw set. “I  _ need _ this, okay? I need it. I don’t know how to handle it without this.”   
  
“Because you’ve never  _ tried.  _ You’ve been drugged up your entire life, Tim. But you’re grown, now. You can find a way to control it.”   
  
“Tried and failed.”   
  
“Then try again.  _ Please.  _ I can’t stand by and watch you kill yourself like this.”   
  
“Look away, then. It’s my life.” Tim slams the DSI against his dresser as hard as he can, breaking it open. He figures he has a seventy-percent chance of it not being heard by the others. Even if they do come running, they won’t be fast enough to keep him from getting what he came for.   
  
“Tim, wait, wait.” Conner holds up his hands, a placating gesture. “Just hear me out, okay?”    
  
“You have thirty seconds.”   
  
“Think about your family—Dick, Alfred, Barbara. Would they really want you doing this to yourself?”   
  
“If that’s the best argument you’ve got, you need to try harder. If they can forgive Damian for all he’s done, I’m practically immune.”   
  
“Didn’t Jason’s mom die of a drug overdose? What makes you any better than her?”   
  
Tim shrugs. “She did heroin. Benzos are safer.”   
  
Conner narrows his eyes. “Then what about  _ Bruce,  _ huh? What would he think if he came back from wherever he is and found out you’d drugged yourself to death? Is this the kind of life he would want for you? Is it?”   
  
Tim...didn’t think about that. Bruce  _ would  _ be disappointed. He would blame himself for this, for Tim’s failure, and it would kill him just as thoroughly as losing Jason did. He would spend every day of the rest of his life wishing he’d done something differently, tried to save his son before he was lost for good.    
  
Can Tim do that to him? Is he really okay with giving Bruce one more tragedy on the list?   
  
“You’re right,” Tim says, sighing. “You’re right. I’m better than this.” He looks at the pills, at the small lifelines in his hand. “It’s too bad I don’t care.”    
  
Tim opens the package and shakes out the pills. He goes to down them when suddenly a fist is flying into his face, knocking him sideways. The pills clatter on the floor.   
  
Tim groans and sits up, cradling his throbbing jaw. That’s going to turn into a  _ wicked  _ bruise. Conner stands there in the spot Tim was, staring at his own fist in wonder. “What the hell was that? You could have broken my _ jaw, _ you—” His eyes widen. “How...how did you do that?” Tim can’t remember any ghost who’s managed to touch something in the physical world. It’s not  _ possible. _   
  
“I...don’t know.”   
  
“You don’t  _ know?  _ You punched me in the face!”   
  
“I didn’t think it would  _ work.  _ You’re the one with the ghost powers. This was all you.”   
  
Tim looks down at his own hands. Could that really have been his doing? He glances around the room and grabs the baseball he caught at a Yankees game Bruce took him to once. Tim stands, pushing aside the pain in his jaw.    
  
“Catch this.” He tosses the baseball into Conner’s waiting hands. It slips right through his palm and hits the floor.   
  
“Again,” Conner says.   
  
They do it over and over, throwing and not-catching the damn thing. They stop every time Tim needs a break because withdrawal spares no one, not even when they’re having groundbreaking epiphanies.   
  
“This isn’t working,” Tim says after the hundredth time of the baseball hitting the floor and rolling under the bed. “Are you even trying?”   
  
“Hey, I’m just the instrument, here. If it’s not working, it’s gotta be you. What are you doing differently?”   
  
“I don’t even remember what I was doing  _ before.  _ I don’t know how I did it.”   
  
“What do you remember? What were you thinking about when it happened?”   
  
Tim shrugs. “I was mostly wondering if Dr. Thompkins had any meds lying around.”   
  
_ “Tim.” _   
  
“I don’t know, okay? I’m sick. I can barely think, even without you chattering in my ear all the time. I wanted some pills—that was it. I thought about how badly I wanted the pain and the headaches to stop. I thought about making the voices in my head go away for good, about wanting you back so I could actually  _ touch _ you for once instead of standing here screaming at nothing like a fucking _ idiot—” _   
  
“Do it again.”   
  
“What?”   
  
“Think about me. About touching me.”   
  
“What’s the point? It didn’t work any of the other million times we tried.”   
  
“Humor me. Just one more time.”   
  
Tim sighs. If he goes through with it, maybe Kon will be so disappointed that he’ll leave Tim alone for the rest of the night. “Fine.  _ One  _ more time.”    
  
“Think about me,” Conner repeats.    
  
So Tim does. It’s not like it’s difficult; all of his thoughts have been about Conner since the moment he died. The only difference now is that he shares a spot with Bruce.    
  
Tim thinks about meeting Conner; figuring that he was an obnoxious jerk at first, only to realize later that he couldn’t have been more wrong. He thinks about days spent together at Titans Tower, at Kent Farm, in Tim’s room at the manor. He thinks about late nights looking up at the stars and pondering infinity. He thinks about holding Conner’s hand when nobody was watching, about kisses stolen in dark rooms, about seeing him smile and feeling like the entire world lit up.   
  
Tim doesn’t realize he closed his eyes until he feels warmth on his hand. He opens his eyes, his breath hitching, but he doesn’t move away. “Conner,” he breathes, half in disbelief, half in awe.   
  
Conner is smiling—maybe the first  _ real  _ smile he’s given since he died. He hugs Tim with nothing less than pure, unmitigated enthusiasm. He hugs Tim like he’s been dehydrated for decades and Tim is the fountain of youth. Tim sinks into the touch he’s been craving for so long, maybe craved even more than the pills. Warmth. Flesh. Muscle.  _ Conner.  _   
  
He knows it’s not the same. Conner is still dead. Tim’s head still feels like it’s being crushed in a vice. The world is still falling apart, with Tim at the epicenter of its destruction. But right here, right now, Tim can feel Conner, and that’s enough for him.   
  
He can feel Conner’s breath, warm on his ear. “I knew you could do it.”  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Hey Siri why do I love writing drug addicts so much, why is it so fun for me I need answers here)
> 
> (And yes, the scene with Bart was just a hallucination because withdrawal symptoms can get wack when you’ve been on the drug for a long time so yeah. The real Bart is still dead and in the speedforce.)
> 
> Thanks for reading!!!! If you watch Umbrella Academy, tell me in the comments who your favorite character is okay I'll go first I love Reginald. :)
> 
> I'M KIDDING I'M KIDDING IT'S KLAUS, REGINALD CAN CHOKE ON A CORNDOG.

**Author's Note:**

> [Feel free to mosey on down to my Tumblr!](http://sohotthateveryonedied.tumblr.com/)


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